A Beautiful Game
by Rahja
Summary: Prince Arthur dies in 1512 with his father still alive, setting in motion a series of events that will change England and his brother Henry forever. Beginning in the dark days of the War of the League of Cambrai where the whole of Europe is playing a game of death, this story explores who will be kings... and who will be pawns.
1. Arthur's Death

**A Beautiful Game Part One – King's Gambit**

_Some people think that if their opponent plays a beautiful game, it's OK to lose. I don't. You have to be merciless. - Magnus Carlsen_

**Chapter 1 … in which one pawn's death changes the odds completely**

* * *

Autumn 1512, England.

* * *

The waves came surging gently upon the English shores today. The reddish light of fading summer was dancing upon the spume, making the world seem so serene and peaceful. Like a mirror, the eyes of a young warrior, clad in iron and satin, reflected this pastoral scenery. Why would the sea seem so perfectly still, he wondered, when she had swallowed so many good souls in so few days? His gaze soared above the white crest waves searching for any signs of the men he had lost. Good men. Friends. Gone forever.

But such was the price of war and he had sworn to pay it. For it was his duty as a knight, a noble, and a gentleman to fight for his king and pay with his life or that of his men if he must. His body and soul belonged to the king. No one knew better than him.

"Are you looking for the Cordelière again?"

It was the Admiral's voice calling for him again. His name was Edward, or Sir Edward Howard, to be precise. He drew closer, jumping from one large stone to the other, his sheathed sword thrumming like a well-filled purse.

"I wouldn't advise you to look for her. Even if you found her, she'd be a ghost ship now and Lord knows I've never heard a good story about those," the Admiral said laughing. He was a tall man, well-shaped, with brown hair and blue eyes.

"She might be a ghost ship for all I care if she returned what she took from us," the young warrior returned. "I'd actually wrestle it from her with my bare hands if I could."

The Admiral, older than him by almost fifteen years, put a brotherly look on his face and a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"You should not trouble yourself for John and Thomas and the others. The French were playing dirty, as they always do, and neither you nor I could have done anything," he said. "And hell, I even envy them somehow! To be blown up and shattered all over the sea, isn't it poetic somehow?"

"I'd rather die with a sword in my hand."

"Oh, you'd better not!" The Admiral laughed again. "Or else your father would surely cut off my head for serving him so poorly. Oh, no, surely not. I won't have anyone saying that I allowed the Duke of York to have his guts cut out."

The young warrior turned his face away. Protect the Duke of York, that's all everyone around here thought. Protect the precious boy! God, how he hated it. He hated it even more because Edward, the Admiral, had just said so, a man whom he had always idolised and whose suave swordsmanship he had always envied. Edward was the kind of man he wanted to be, a true hero of war, but instead he had been restricted to overseeing the provisions and finances of their campaign. Why him? What did they think? That he was a bloody miser like his father?

"You need a woman," Edward stated. "That sour face isn't very becoming. Come, let's return to the camp and see what we've got."

The Duke spent another moment sulking about his misfortune before turning around again and finding his friend already climbed up the bank. He pushed away the thoughts and rushed behind him.

"Wait, Edward! What did you say?"

"That you need a woman, Your Grace." Edward smiled in the handsome way only he could smile. He was terribly good at it. "Or do you have one already?"

"Wish I had," Henry, Duke of York, returned gnawing his teeth.

"You're telling me the ladies are not queuing for a prince of England?"

"We're in a camp, the only 'ladies' here are nothing but soldier's whores. You think a prince of England needs to bed one of them?"

Edward shook his head laughing as they passed the guards and entered their camp again. Hundreds of young, hopeful knights and yeomen were swarming around them preparing for the next time they would set sail for battle. Most of them were quite eager to do so. They had only entered the war a few months ago, and aside from the unfortunate incident surrounding the explosion of the ship called Cordelière, their campaign had been quite successful.

"Take a wife, then," Edward suggested.

"Already asked my father, but he won't allow it. I guess he wants to chaffer around some more, the old miser. Or he thinks I could be a threat to Arthur and once more plans to put me in the Church. Who knows what the old man is thinking!"

"I think it would do you good to be married. Calms the spirits. Or so I have heard."

Henry gave him a strange look, but said nothing in return.

"You could marry my sister. She's in need of calm spirits now as well."

"Who, Muriel? Her husband was just blown to pieces on the damn Cordelière and you think she wants to remarry? And besides, isn't she pregnant?"

Edward nodded. "Heavily so. Why, is that a deterrent for you? I thought you didn't mind, considering your adventures with a certain Northern mistress…"

"Hush!" Henry was adamant now. "No one must know, least of all my father."

"I won't tell anyone if you consider my proposal. I'd really like a brother-in-law like you… Your Grace."

Henry wanted to scold him for this blackmailing, however friendly it was, but before he had the chance to do so, another familiar voice called for his aid. Over by the provisions' tent, his best friend Charles had engaged in a passionate discussion with a local merchant about the victuals the man was supposed to deliver.

"He's a thief and cutthroat!" Charles exclaimed heated.

The merchant, too, shouted at Henry from across the yard: "On my honour, Your Grace, I swear fifteen's a good price! I can't go any lower or else my family will starve over the winter. Master Brandon is trying to ruin me!"

Henry and Edward exchanged a short, smiling glance before doing their duty and coming to the rescue. Neither of them liked this boring side of the war, but since Charles's hot temper sometimes broke loose like this, it could be quite entertaining at times.

"What are you arguing about, Mister Hayes? Is it the barley?" Henry asked

"Aye, the barley, Your Grace. Fifteen's the least I must take or else I'll find myself in the gutter by the end of the month."

Henry looked at Charles, who – despite his impressive figure – seemed not to have intimidated the dubious merchant. They had been friends since their earliest days, having been raised together, so they could usually guess each other's thoughts just by exchanging glances. Henry instantly understood that Charles considered the merchant's plight to be nothing but a clever strategy, and he prepared to act accordingly.

"How many children do you have, Mister Hayes?"

"Eight, Your Grace. Two of my girls will be wed soon. The dowry is killing me, so to speak," the merchant said grinning. "Can we agree on the fifteen now?"

Before Henry could reply, he was interrupted yet again this day. A soldier handed him a piece of parchment sealed with the King's signet.

"What does he want now?" Henry asked snarling. "Admiral, would you please take over for a moment?"

Of course, Edward did what he was asked. Even though he was officially higher than Henry in the ranks of this army, he followed the orders given by Henry as a member of the royal family. And besides, they were friends – all three of them. Being a prince, Henry naturally had many friends, but Edward and Charles were special to him. Both of them were significantly older, which might have seemed odd, but Henry had always felt at ease with them. If only he was their age, if only he had been his father's first-born! But at least, he was with them now, tasting the sweet sip of victorious battles, instead of chanting prayers in a dusty church.

This had always been his nightmare: That he would have to be a Cardinal after all. He was a learned and pious man, true, but he was too hungry for wars and women to give up either. Why had Arthur not become a priest? He was the duller brother. He would have loved Church life and it would have spared his pretty wife her disappointing marriage.

"I heard Mister Lowell from Greenport sells barley for twelve," Edward continued the conversation while his royal friend turned away to read. "Maybe we should buy from him?"

"Twelve? That's impossible, my Lord, you must have been lied to! Fifteen's perfectly reasonable," the merchant returned.

The atmosphere grew even hotter.

"You're trying to fool us, you jester!" Charles interjected. "For the amounts we're buying, a discount would be more than just appropriate!"

"But you're ruining the market, Master Brandon!"

Edward shook his head, trying to intervene: "You cannot be serious, good man, for surely…"

"Give him fourteen and not a copper coin more," Henry surprised them all by saying. Then, without any other order, he turned around and left.

Edward and Charles exchanged glances.

"Fourteen. Wonderful. Splendid. Thank you very much, Your Grace!" The merchant yelled.

"Come with me then, Mister Hayes, I'll arrange for the payment," Edward offered while Charles quickly followed the weirdly-acting prince.

He found him standing on the windy cliffs of the shore, staring out at the sea with the parchment loosely waving in his hand. Something profound had happened, of that Charles could be sure, given the odd way Henry had reacted to the letter. And certainly, Henry was in need of a friend now.

"News from court?" Charles asked.

"From my father," Henry replied without making eye contact. "My brother Arthur has died."

* * *

She let the parchment slide through her fingers like it was made from precious metals and encrusted with diamonds. To her, it could prove even more valuable than that. Her eyes, two violet-blue orbs of shrewdness, skimmed through the words written on the parchment more than once. She had to make sure there was no misunderstanding. She had to make sure this was real.

Almost without thinking about it, her other hand searched for the rosary her mother had given her on her wedding day. Holding it always calmed her nerves and made her think clearly. It assured her of God's presence in her every thought and deed. Torn between the letter and the rosary, the young lady of such noble birth knew this was the Lord's doing. She knew it was her chance.

Quickly she rose to her feet and left her rooms. She paced through the halls and the gardens of the palace, making her way to the King's great chamber with ease. The palace was not her birthplace, nor had she spent many years here, but it felt right to walk through these halls. It felt as if she belonged in a place such as this. People curtseyed as she passed, even though the laws of the realm required them only to acknowledge her presence with a nod. Yet, most of them were too careful to risk the anger of the Duchess of Alencon.

"I request an audience with His Majesty," she haughtily demanded of the guard standing watch.

"His Majesty is currently engaged in the affairs of state," he replied dutifully.

"Then make it known to His Majesty that I mean to bring before him matters which concern said affairs of state," she insisted.

He bowed before her and left to inform the King. A long while after, he returned, bowing once more and telling her that she would soon be expected. The Duchess tried to show gratefulness, but she found it hard to wait. Patience was a virtue, she knew, but one she lacked once in a while. Finally, a groom brought her before the king.

"The father of the people", they called him. It was an official title granted to him some years prior, yet the Duchess was still puzzled by its meaning. To her, he was just an old man with far too little hair and far too big a belly. But he was no fool, she granted him that. In fact, he was very hard to see through, and if God forbid he disfavoured someone, their fate never turned out happily. If anything, Louis XII of France was a man determined to get what he wanted.

"My lovely niece Marguerite! What brings you here?" He asked with no loveliness in his voice.

She still perceived it as odd that he would call her "niece" when their family ties were actually much looser, but she accepted it for what it was worth. At least she was acknowledged as a member of the royal family.

"Majesty, I have come to speak about the news from England," she replied curtseying deeply.

King Louis nodded. "Ah, yes. The King of England has lost yet another child. It appears God has forsaken him for attacking our fleet. If he had stayed out of this war altogether, or even taken my hand when I offered it, maybe he would have been spared these sorrows."

"I have no doubt about it, Majesty," Marguerite was quick to affirm. "Yet perhaps the situation might prove to be beneficial for France in more than simply justice."

Louis' face seemed somewhat intrigued, yet it was hard to guess if it was genuine or just show. Sometimes Marguerite felt compelled to assume that he never felt anything at all.

"The new crown prince of England, Henri, lacks a wife to share his bed and board. If he were to choose a French bride, a bargain could be struck that England withdraw from the war or even side with us. Of course, Your Majesty would have to make sure that said French bride was capable of influencing the crown prince, and thus King Henry, in a way most appropriate to our needs."

Louis bend a little forward and into the late autumn light falling through the windows. Now, his age became even more visible than before, but also his shrewdness. While Marguerite considered herself to be neither a fool nor a coward, she still trembled at the sight of the King. To know that a man of such changing interests wielded such a great power intimidated her whenever they met. She knew just what he could do to her if she didn't play her cards well.

"And am I correctly assuming that you wish for me to consider offering you as said French bride, ma chère Marguerite?"

Marguerite hesitated at the tone of his voice. It was indistinguishable whether he favoured her proposal or not.

"Sharing Your Majesty's blood, I think I would be a suitable bride for a future king," she found herself answering.

Louis nodded. "And yet, your poor husband died only months ago in this hell of a war that we are trapped in."

"A war that I mean to bring to a quick end by uniting us with England," Marguerite quickly returned. "And though I grieve for the soul of my gracious husband, I have no intention to stay an unwed spinster for the rest of my life. Just like any other woman, I long to be ruled by a husband and have children of my own."

"And a crown," Louis added. It wasn't a question.

"It… it would serve France well to have a French queen sitting upon the English throne."

"And yet it would lose me my Duchess of Alencon. Do you think I assured you your rights to your deceased husband's duchy over his sister only to let it slip away from France and offer it to the King of England?"

Marguerite flinched at his tone. This time, he was certainly not pleased.

"No, Your Majesty. I would always consider you my liege above all else. Would it not suit you if the Queen of England were to pay homage to you as her liege lord?"

"It might," Louis said, but it didn't sound any convincing. "And perhaps you are right. A French bride could set things straight with England. So far, they have only played war, and perhaps we can convince them to stay out of it from now on. Yet why should I not choose my own daughter, Claude, over you?"

Marguerite lowered her gaze dutifully. "Of course, it is up to Your Majesty to decide whom to offer to the Prince of Wales. I would never dare to interfere in these matters, for I am but a woman and thus unfit to decide in matters of state. All I meant was to put these matters before Your Majesty so that you, in your wisdom, may decide for the better future of our beloved mother France."

"Well spoken, my dear," Louis returned with a strange smile. "I shall consider your proposal and inform you about my decision if necessary. You may resume your daily duties now, dear niece."

"Your Majesty," she said curtseying again and left the room, her heart still pounding. Her fingers clutched to the rosary. If only her mother was here, but she was in Angoulême with her brother, Francis. Marguerite was here on her own and a quick decision had to be made. She had done her best to convince the king. Now it was up to God to decide.

* * *

The queen of England was a beautiful woman. Fair in complexion, yellow of hair, with eyes so mossy green they'd trick you into believing you were staring at the endless green meadows of England. She was still young, only twenty, but mature for her age and regal in behaviour. Though she had been born the daughter of a mere knight, she had the composure of a true queen, many agreed. To hear others speak about her so well was a great relief to Queen Maud.

Oh, how she had dreaded the court scandals when the King of England had come courting! How she had feared that the footsteps of saintly Queen Elizabeth of York were far too big for her to step in! And her fears had not been far-fetched, not at all. After the sorrowful demise of the York queen, everyone had assumed that her loving husband, King Henry VII, would soon follow her into the grave. When he had not, his council had urged him to remarry, and being a dutiful servant to his realm he had obeyed.

The woman he had married, however, had tried to replace the York queen in the hearts of the common people, and she had failed miserably. It wasn't her lineage – being sister to the Duke of Buckingham, she had royal blood flowing in her veins. No, Elizabeth Stafford would have made a most appropriate queen, had she not sought to remove every reminder of the previous queen called Elizabeth. People had sourly begrudged her these actions. When she miscarried a child first and birthed but a daughter second, many had considered it to be a just retribution for her indiscretions. Though, in the end, no one would have ever dared to say so, because the second Queen Elizabeth – just like the first – had died in childbirth.

Queen Maud wondered if she had to be thankful to her predecessor. She knew how well beloved Elizabeth of York had been, so perhaps everyone who would have followed her would have never been accepted. But since Elizabeth Stafford had given them herself as an aim for their disappointment and anger, most people had rejoiced to have another queen after her death. And above all that, Maud had been careful enough not to antagonise the saintly dead queen.

And why would she? Maud had still known Queen Elizabeth personally, having come to her household as a maid of honour with her mother when she had been only twelve years old. She had admired Elizabeth's kindness and peaceful nature and had always aspired to be just like her. Only that she would have never guessed she would one day sit on the same throne as her idol – and beside the same man.

Her husband… Queen Maud smiled when she thought of him. He was much older than her, but very affectionate and graceful to her. Whatever others might whisper about him – that he was an old, heartless miser – Maud could not confirm. He had courted her, a mere lady-in-waiting, after the death of his second wife, as if she were a princess from a fairy tale. He had given her his love and his crown and also a beautiful little daughter whom they had named Catherine. And resting her hand on her belly, Maud knew that they would soon have another lovely little baby in their arms.

"Are you unwell, Your Highness? Is the babe alright," Elizabeth Boleyn, her favourite lady-in-waiting, asked.

"Yes, Lady Boleyn. The little prince and I are perfectly well," Maud replied smiling. "I was thinking of how blessed I am to have conceived another child so quickly after my sweet Cate. His Majesty is very pleased to know he will have another son soon."

"He most certainly is, given the poor fate of his eldest son. His Grace is in need of sons now," Lady Elizabeth agreed.

"And by the new year, my husband will have his prince," Maud assured her. A while ago, she had taken to speak of her unborn child as a prince because it pleased her husband. But now that his eldest son had died and only one was left, it had become something more – a promise. The promise of a continuing dynasty.

Elizabeth shivered. "I cannot even dare to imagine what were to happen if the new Prince of Wales also died before fathering sons. People might think the Tudors were not blessed by God."

"Oh, but they would be mistaken. His Majesty has plenty of healthy children – more than most."

"But only girls – except for Prince Henry, of course. None of them are fit to succeed. But the child in your womb, Majesty…"

Maud nodded. She hesitated to finish Elizabeth's sentence although she well knew what the end ought to be. The child in my belly could one day be king of England. Provided that Prince Henry died without heirs, of course.

"A bonny Duke of York he will be," she said, resuming her needlework.

"Certainly, Your Highness. The best Duke of York there ever was," Elizabeth agreed. "God forbid the King lost another son. He has been through so much these past years."

Maud nodded. Sometimes, when they shared a bed, Henry would roll to the side and stare into the fireplace for a seemingly endless time. Maud had never dared to ask what occupied his mind during these moments, but she surmised he was thinking of those he had lost – his wife, his dead children, his friends. Those were the moments when she remembered that he was a man in the eve of his life while she had only just sipped the sweet tastes the world had to offer. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she realised that he would most certainly die long before her. She would be a widow before long. A woman lost in a hostile world. Instinctively, Maud touched her belly as if to protect herself and her child.

"The King will want to find a wife for his son. I encouraged him to do so more than once, but he always withheld an answer for me," she told Elizabeth. "Now, he will be left with no choice. The Prince of Wales must procure children."

"Well, let us pray then that he is more fortunate in these matters than his poor brother, God rest his soul."

Maud nodded quietly, thinking about Arthur and his wife Catherine. They had been married ten years, but only one daughter had been granted to them. Many whispers circulated at court about the state of their marriage.

"I heard a rumour that the Prince is to marry the Dowager Princess of Wales. I heard envoys have been sent to the Pope asking for a papal dispensation," Elizabeth said.

"They are just that – rumours. I hardly believe my husband will want the Infanta to wed his son. After all, she has not been very fortunate at producing heirs, either."

Maud didn't like the sharpness in her own voice, but she couldn't feel sorry for Catherine of Aragon, the woman who had refused to attend her wedding to the King because she thought her "too low-born". In the beginning, Maud had spared some sympathy for her point of view, knowing how humiliating it was for a Spanish Infanta to bow before a knight's daughter. But after months had passed, no friendly gesture had come. They had announced Maud's pregnancy, but no congratulations from Wales. They had even named their little daughter Catherine – nothing. Now, Maud felt no longer inclined to be sorry for Catherine of Aragon, no matter her fate.

"I do not wish to speak about the Dowager Princess. She and her daughter are safe in Wales. I have my own child to worry about."

"Of course, Madam. Have you thought of names yet?"

Maud dithered a bit. "Thomas perhaps, for my father. Though it is up for the King to decide. It was gracious enough of him allowing me to choose Catherine's name."

"And you have chosen wisely, if I may say so. Such a beautiful little girl, Princess Catherine," Elizabeth said smiling.

"I have heard similar rumours about your daughters, Lady Boleyn. When will you present them to me?"

"My eldest, Mary, resides at our family home in Hever, and may come whenever Your Grace wishes. The younger however has accompanied my husband on his diplomatic mission to the Netherlands. His letters indicate that he might be able to place her in the household of Archduchess Margaret of Austria."

Maud nodded. "A tremendous honour. What is your daughter's name again?"

Elizabeth Boleyn smiled. "Anne."

* * *

The Earl of Surrey was often referred to as "the patriarch" by those who dared to whisper behind his back. They were of course little in number, for Thomas Howard towered above everyone by sheer force of his presence. He was of average height, but his slender figure made him seem taller, and between the silvery-grey hair of his head and beard, two darkish-grey eyes anxiously scrutinised his surroundings.

He was old, the Earl of Surrey, nearing the seventieth anniversary of his birth. Most men of his age would have died long ago, but not him. It seemed he was unwilling to let go of life before he had accomplished the task which occupied his every waking moment – reclaiming the duchy of Norfolk for his family.

When shortly after the death of Prince Arthur, Surrey invited his eldest son for dinner, Thomas Howard the younger knew without a doubt that his father was peeking at a chance to become Duke of Norfolk. Nothing else could be important enough to lure his son into his house.

As he was about to enter the dining room, Thomas Howard paused. They had not parted on good terms they last time they had met, his father and him. And it was all because of her – Agnes Tilney. In his thoughts, he spat out her name. Yes, she was his mother's cousin, yes, she was his stepmother now, but neither fact could wipe away the detest he felt for her. She was a snake to him, a viper pouring her venom into his father's ears, and he knew she would rest at nothing until she had rid herself of every threat to her position. That, of course, included Thomas and his brother Edward.

Ah, yes, Edward! The charming Howard, people called him. He'd never quarrelled with Agnes, either publicly or privately, but instead had withdrawn from his troublesome family to fight the King's wars. Admiral of the Fleet. Thomas couldn't say that he didn't envy his brother, at least to some extent, but he also knew he could never do the same. He felt a strong duty towards his father and his family name, a duty to become Earl of Surrey after his father and perhaps even Duke of Norfolk. He had no intentions to let an upstart bitch like Agnes Tilney come in the way of his duties.

With this thought on his mind, Thomas pushed open the door. "I bid you all a good day," he said in the friendliest manner possible.

Four people were waiting for him, each striking a different chord of emotions in his heart. There was his father, grey and stern as ever he'd been. There was his step-mother, much younger than his father and even than himself, whose sweet smile made him want to strangle her there and then. There was Edmund, the younger of his true brothers (those born to his dear mother, not Agnes), whose spendthrift antics troubled Thomas more than he wanted to admit. And there was his sister Elizabeth. Thomas' gaze lightened up at her sight.

She was over thirty now, but still looked no older than twenty-two, with blondish-brown hair and a sweet maidenly face that could make every man's heart melt. He had not known she would be here, but her presence sure would make the evening more bearable.

"Sister," he said warmly as he sat down beside her.

"Bring wine," his father ordered. "We have much to discuss, son."

Thomas nodded. "Of course, Lord Surrey. I am at your command."

Wine was poured into their cups and a roasted boar was served before them. Despite the lavish food, however, none of them seemed particularly eager to eat. There was an awkward tension in the room.

"Where is Edward?" Thomas finally found himself asking.

"Still at the shores, fighting the French," his father replied sternly.

His wife nodded. "Such a pity he couldn't make it. His charming presence graces every room."

Thomas bit his tongue, but said nothing at her remark. She was best ignored, he had found.

"But he has sent a letter. It seems his good friend, the new Prince of Wales, is receiving numerous offers for his hand as we speak," the Earl of Surrey continued untouched. "Seeing that all of you have been blessed by the Lord with at least some wits, I need not explain to you at length that it is paramount the Prince chose a Howard bride."

"Certainly not, my dear husband," Agnes purred, emphasising the word 'dear'. "Think only of the glory it would bring our name to have a Howard on the throne one day."

"We could regain the duchy by this," Thomas agreed as well, completely neglecting the fact that his stepmother had spoken before him.

"You see true, son," Surrey acknowledged. "This might just prove to be the moment of our return to power. And yet, who shall we offer the prince?"

A brief moment of silence followed, filled only by the sounds sawing knives and gnawing teeth, finally cut through by the voice of Agnes Tilney.

"Such a pity that your daughter Elizabeth is married already."

Surrey nodded. "Indeed. She is by far the most eligible maiden my house has to offer. I am beginning to think it was no wise choice giving her to that upstart Boleyn," he spoke as if Elizabeth wasn't even present.

Knowing that Elizabeth was actually quite fond of her husband, Thomas spoke up for her. "Boleyn is ambassador to the Netherlands now."

"What is an ambassador compared to a prince of England?" Agnes returned.

"He has given me three lovely children," Elizabeth dared to protest.

"Only one of which is a boy," her father snapped. "But I have no mind to dissolve your marriage. What is done is done. By any means, we shall not advance by fretting over bygones. There is a vacancy for princess now, not ten years ago. This is a chance we must seize."

Everyone nodded silently. Elizabeth and her brother exchanged glances of mutual understanding and brotherly love. However sick their family might be at times, there would always be a good mood between them, they had promised. Thomas fully intended to keep that promise.

"What about Muriel," Agnes Tilney suggested.

"No," Elizabeth yelped, visibly shocked.

Her father's stern gaze soon met with hers. "Why not? She might not share your beauty, true, but she still is fair enough a maiden to be bride of a prince."

"And her fertility is more than proven," Agnes added, of course referring to Muriel's current pregnancy.

Thomas was disgusted by her words. That his stepmother would suggest poor Muriel to spread her legs for the family's fortune – Muriel, of all people! Had the poor girl not suffered enough, losing her husband to the war while going through a pregnancy which proved to be more than difficult?

"Your Lordship seems to forget that Muriel is heavy with another man's child," he tried to change his father's mind.

"It cannot be long before she gives birth. After that, we'll get her cleaned up and present her to the King."

"Is there no other way?" Edmund dared to ask.

Her father frowned. "Why, do you consider the Prince to be unworthy of your dear sister?"

"No, I just think Muriel will need more time to cope with the loss of her husband."

"Then there is no better way to do so but marrying," her father sternly assured him.

Thomas bit his tongue. That is just what you have done, isn't it, he asked in his mind. You set aside our mother's memory to marry her good-for-nothing cousin.

"Edmund," their father said in his dark voice. "We have no other means by which to grasp for what is rightfully ours. I cannot present the King with one of my nieces or cousin's daughters, for he would be right to feel insulted, and your sisters born to my wife are far too young for the King to consider them. There is no other way."

Elizabeth swallowed and nodded. She and Thomas both knew that there was no way of changing their father's mind once it was set. They only wondered why he had called them here in the first place if he didn't care about their opinions.

"It is settled, then," Agnes summarised smiling. "Muriel will wed the prince after her child has been born."

The Earl nodded. "So it will be. Let us pray that she has a son, so that her husband's heritage is secured to us."

"Let us pray she makes it through childbirth," Elizabeth mumbled under her breath, but loud enough for her brother to hear.

He nodded, his eyes still fixed on his stepmother. He just couldn't shake off the feeling that all of this was her doing and that she was weaving a clever plan to rid herself of Surrey's children born from his first marriage. But how would making Muriel Princess of Wales achieve that? There had to be more to it. Thomas narrowed his eyes. He didn't see through his stepmother, but he would do soon enough. It was a promise to himself – and to his sister, Muriel.

* * *

"Have you heard about the Prince of Wales? I hear he choked on his own spit after the sickness had worn him out," the brown-haired Queen of France, lying comfortably in a brazen tub filled with steamy water, asked her chief lady-in-waiting, Francoise.

"That is what I hear from England, Madame. But why would you worry yourself with these matters? England is but a small island far to the West and of no importance to a lady so great as yourself."

A frown appeared on the Queen's forehead. Many a wrinkle surrounding it gave proof that it was not the first doubt and sorrow to enter her face. In fact, despite being only 35 years of age, Queen Anne of France had seen many woes and had pained herself through so many losses. She had fought many battles and lost most of them. But where others would have broken, Anne had prevailed. She had become stronger, a lioness to her cause, and every wrinkle of her face was like a scar to her.

"You are much mistaken to believe so. My birds tell me that my dear husband is planning on offering a French bride to the new Prince of Wales. Surely I need not point out to you that no king in his sane mind would refuse such an offer by my husband," Anne told her soberly.

"Why would that worry you, my Queen?"

"Because my birds also sing to me of Duchess Marguerite and that my husband might offer her to King Henry."

Francoise wrung out the sponge before placing it on her mistress' back. "So they sing? But the King will not prefer her to his daughter by you."

"Of course he will. He has already promised Claude to the Duchess' brother, Francis, whom he considers to be his heir. He has given up any hope of begetting a son on me, so he means to marry my daughter to his successor. He will not rest until he has taken away from me everything I ever owned."

Scrubbing her back gently, Francoise shook her head. "You must not think so, Madame. Surely His Majesty will offer the English crown prince his daughter as well as the Duchess."

"Which is as good as not offering Claude's hand at all," Anne subsumed bitterly.

"Why would you think so?"

Angrily, Anne turned her head around. "Do you take me for a fool? If Prince Henry is only half as much in love with women as they say he is, there is no way in this world that he would choose my daughter over Marguerite."

Francois shook her head readily. "Ah, but your daughter is…"

"No beauty," Anne finished her sentence before her lady could. She did so rather coldly. In her life, she had made many experiences that had led her to believe that lying about things that could not be changed would not change them either. She knew her elder daughter was of small height and had a hunched back.

"And yet the Duchess of Alencon is not the most beautiful woman in France."

"She may not be that, but she is fair enough. She has the grace of youth in her face and the promise of sons in her hips, and God knows she has something in those blue eyes… do not cherish the illusion that any man would set her aside for my daughter."

"But she is such a lovely lady, Princess Claude. She has a good heart," Francoise protested.

Anne laughed bitterly. "Unfortunately, Duchess Marguerite is quite charming herself, from what I hear. She has never given me cause to resent her personally, however much her sheer existence may threaten my power."

Her words silenced Francoise, who simply carried out her washing duties without saying a word. Anne was grateful for that, for it allowed her to sulk into her bitter thoughts. For so many years she had tried to bear a living, healthy son, who could inherit her birth right – the Duchy of Brittany. Even when she had been forced to renounce her marriage by proxy to Emperor Maximilian and instead bed King Charles, and after him King Louis, she had not given up hope. But one by one, her sons had died, and now all she was left with were two daughters – one a poor hunchback, the other but a toddler in her arms.

"He will take it all away from me," Anne said into the silence, speaking more to herself than to Francoise.

"Who?"

"Louis. He will not rest until he has devoured me whole. He will stop at nothing to take away what is rightfully mine and absorb Brittany into his powers. All my hopes, all my struggles – it will all be for naught. When my daughter marries Francis and they have a child, the ducal crown of Brittany will merge with that of France. Our independence, our identity – all lost. My whole life for nothing."

"You mustn't think that, Majesty," Francoise tried to soothe her while brushing her hair.

"I know. And that is why I cannot allow the English crown prince to wed Marguerite. I must find a means to deny her family this increment of power, for it will come at the cost of my own, and that of my daughters. By all means, I will see Claude wed to Prince Henry, or else all hope is lost for Brittany."

A fierceness built up in her eyes as she spoke these words.

"I can tell only you, Francoise, but you I must tell: I will not leave this world until I can rest assured that Brittany is safe from my husband's lecherous grasp, and I will rest at nothing to secure my daughter's fortunes. I have come too far to stop at anything now. Whatever war I must fight, whatever price I must pay, I am willing to do so for the sake of the good people of Brittany and that of my soul. My life will not be for naught, not as long as I still have the strength in my bones to change about it."

* * *

Darkness had descended all across the Welsh marches and seemed to creep through every crack and every hole of Ludlow Castle. The place had always had a gloomy air about it, but since the death of Prince Arthur, the atmosphere had become even grimmer. Not even the orange lights of a softly sizzling fireplace could scare away the ghosts of so many dark memories buried within these walls.

"Papa has not come to see me," a sweet girl's voice broke through the uneasy, lingering silence.

Her mother, a beautiful lady in her late twenties, bit her lip to swallow the pain and let her fingers glide over her daughter's hair. It shone brightly in the light of the fire, making it seem even redder than it actually was. The little girl had inherited her mother's brownish-red hair and fair complexion, though her eyes were all Arthur's. Once, her mother had loved them for that, but now it grieved her every time she looked Mary in the eyes.

"I have told you, my pearl, that your papa is with God and His angels now," she replied quietly.

Mary slid from her lap and turned around, looking at her with Arthur's eyes. "Does that mean he cannot come and see me?"

Catherine, Dowager Princess of Wales and Infanta of Spain, found herself nodding while trying to force a smile on her lips.

"Yes, mi cielo. God loved your papa so much that He called him to dine with Him. And when God commands, men must obey," Catherine told her. "Are you saying your prayers for papa?"

"Yes, mama," Mary assured her. "Once in the morning and once before sleep. I pray that God is kind to papa and that I can see him again when He calls on me. He will call on me, will He not? One day."

Catherine nodded, but her heart clenched with pain. "He will," she assured her daughter. "But not very soon. You have to be queen first and rule – just like your grandmother."

"Was she really a queen, mama? Lady Salisbury told me that women are never queens alone. Only men can rule a kingdom."

"And yet your grandmother was queen in her own right. In fact, she was a queen twice over. Queen of Castile by birth right and Queen of Aragon by her marriage to your grandpapa."

Mary nodded understandingly. "Where is grandpapa?"

"In Aragon. He is the king."

"Can we visit him some time?"

"Of course, mi cielo," Catherine assured her, though she was not so sure of it herself. It was unlikely that King Henry would let her and Mary go for fear they might pick up arms against him to fight for the throne. If history had proved one thing, it was that Henry was very wary about people who struggled for his crown. He would also not let them go for fear of risking to lose Arthur's unborn heir – though, Catherine though bitterly, no such heir would ever be born. Her monthly courses had returned to her only a few days ago, destroying all hopes that a seed of life might have survived her husband.

Now, she and Mary were alone in this world. Her mother was dead, her sister was mad, and her father had shown no interest in her for years. Clearly, it was due to the pricy Navarrese whore he had invited to his bed and his throne. Even thinking of it made Catherine's heart wither. How could her father replace her saintly mother with anyone, let alone such a flimsy foreign girl? Why were all the good wives replaced by pretty little sluts? Her mother had been, as had her mother-in-law. Poor Queen Elizabeth, to be succeeded by as arrogant a lady as Elizabeth Stafford, and then by the low-bred Maud Green! It grieved Catherine beyond measures to think that she, daughter of the warrior Queen Isabel, was forced to smile and curtsey before common whores like Germaine and Maud.

And why did it seem that God favoured them so much? Why was Germaine showered with gifts by her father as Maud seemed to be showered with children? Catherine was certain the unborn child of England's queen was a boy. She could feel it in her bones and it made her feel twice as sick. It was so unjust! Why would God grant her a son when he let the sons of Elizabeth of York die one by one? Why had he not granted her, Catherine, a living boy? For ten years, she had shared Arthur's bed, she had endured his growing antics and dwindling love, and in reward she had been given one daughter.

She would not miss Mary for the world, Catherine thought with a smile as her daughter crawled back into her arms. And yet she was no fool. She knew well that, being but a girl, Mary would never be good enough for her grandfather. This wasn't Castile, this was England. The English were not ready for a queen, King Henry believed, and King Ferdinand would certainly not interfere on her behalf.

"You must to bed, my sweet," Catherine said patting her daughter's head.

"But I am not tired."

"And yet you must. Be a darling girl and do as you're told. Your papa will not like to hear that you have been a nasty girl when you see him again in heaven."

Mary nodded, shame dying her cheeks red. "Yes, mama," she whispered. "Good night."

Catherine smiled proudly and took her by the hand to escort her to Lady Salisbury, her governess. She made sure Mary was properly taken care of and would not forget her nightly prayers. Mary was a good girl. She could make for an excellent queen, Catherine simply knew it.

A sharp pain in her stomach reminded her of the fact that Mary would never have a brother. With Arthur gone, they were alone. King Henry might just be willing to let them rot here forever, she feared. She couldn't allow that to happen. Her mind heavy with thoughts and sorrows, Catherine of Aragon returned to her chambers and looked for paper and quill.

By the dancing light of the fire, she began to write words that her pride and self-consciousness dictated. She knew they might not warm the King of England's heart, but she could not let the opportunity slip away. Mary was her father's heir and her father had been heir to King Henry. She was fit to be queen, no, she was destined to be queen. It was high time the world recognised that.

* * *

"I hope you like the green dress I chose for the occasion," the young Queen of Aragon purred into her husband's ear as they rode on.

"It perfectly matches my Lady's hair and face," Ferdinand of Aragon agreed. "Most suitable for a ride in the forest. If you'll now forgive me, my love, I shall join my riders for the hunt."

Germaine of Foix nodded. She didn't mind her husband going away for a while so long as he still recognised and admired her beauty. Her long brown curls, her pearl-white skin and her perfectly shaped collarbones were her biggest assets, of that she was all too aware. They were what had won her a comfortable place by an ageing king's side and she was determined to keep it that way. Life could be so much uglier.

"The King is in high spirits today," one of her husband's guest, Cardinal Mendoza, said approaching her.

"He is. A good hunt always cheers him up."

"And he would be in dire need of it, would he not, given that his son-in-law has just passed away?" Mendoza noted. "I thank the Lord that He has seen fit to send us a queen like yourself to comfort His Grace in these dire days."

Germaine smiled at him in the most adorable way. "Yes, the Lord is good, isn't He?"

"I wonder if there is any news of the Infanta Catalina. How does she fare as a widow? Is she well-treated and well-beloved still?"

"Well," Germaine said, but nothing was to follow for a moment or two. Instead, she gazed at the man who seemed to be so curious about her stepdaughter. He was about thirty, perhaps older, she'd say, so he was old enough to have known Catalina before she became Princess Catherine. Perhaps they'd met during childhood, perhaps they'd shared a friendship. Perhaps, Germaine thought giggling, they'd shared even more than that.

"Well, Your Grace?" He interrupted her thoughts.

"Well, Don Inigo, I am afraid I have to disappoint you. So far as I am concerned, there is no news from my poor stepdaughter. She is alive and healthy, as is her little daughter, but alas, I know no more."

Mendoza nodded absent-mindedly. "That is some good news after all. Let us pray that she is well-treated by her father-in-law as well."

"Well, I wouldn't know," Germaine said, pulling the reins of her horse more harshly than before. This conversation was getting a bit uncomfortable for her, though she could not determine why. "But I hear that the dead prince's brother is heir to the throne now."

"Henry of York?" Mendoza asked.

She nodded her head gently. "Yes. I hear he is fighting the French at the moment. A tall and good-looking young man of twenty-one years. They say he is very popular."

Mendoza grunted, barely audibly. "With women?"

"With everyone, Don Inigo. I hear many believe he will make for a fine king."

"And yet he is occupying the place that rightfully belongs to your stepdaughter and her child. What does His Highness plan to do about that? Is he corresponding with King Henry?"

Germaine frowned. "Your Grace, you are asking far too many questions for a poor woman like me to answer," she chided him. "If you are so concerned about the Infanta's well-being, why would you not address my husband yourself? I am sure that, if he means to intervene, a means could be found that you were to execute his orders in England. Would that not please you?"

She could see his face light up and knew she had hit a nerve. That hadn't been her intention, though – not really, at least. All she wanted was for him to pester someone else with his questions, preferably the King of England or someone else who was far, far away from her.

"I shall do so, my Queen. Accept my apologies and my eternal gratitude for your magnanimous words," he said smiling.

Germaine returned the smile, but only until she knew he had left to join her husband and his riders. She stifled a yawn and turned around to her ladies.

"We should make a camp here. I have no mind to race behind my lord husband for as many hours as it will take. Ladies," she ordered them.

One of her maids came to help her leave the saddle while the others prepared their picnic. Germaine smiled at the girl while she was being helped. She enjoyed looking at her ladies, all hand-picked and dressed in beautiful dresses designed by herself. If there was one thing in this world that Germaine truly worshipped, it was beauty. True beauty. Everything else withered away, but not true beauty.

"Is it true, Your Grace?" The girl dared to ask. "What you said about the English prince, I mean."

"Or so I have heard. He is said to have the reddish hair that runs in his family and to tower about most men. He was once groomed to join the clergy, so he is a well-read and very learned man. They also say he is an able warrior and jouster, and that every woman he meets soon finds herself to be in love with him."

Her lady smiled a dreamy smile. "That sounds wonderful," she whispered.

"Indeed it does. Like a fairy-tale prince, don't you think, Juliana?"

All of her ladies nodded in agreement and returned her smile.

"I wish I could meet him," one of her girls added.

Germaine grinned. "Why, so that you would fall in love with him also? Your father would certainly not be pleased, my dear. I will not have the people say that I cannot make my ladies behave properly."

"Yes, Your Grace," they all echoed in unison.

"But yes, you are right. He sounds like an interesting man… especially for a prince. Most princes are incredibly dull. But he… well, I have half a mind to meet him myself."

Her ladies gasped, but Germaine took it as a reason to giggle and reach for the lemon cake. "Do not trouble yourselves, my ladies, I was pulling a joke on you. Rest assured that I love no one save my husband, the king. Now, would you please pass me the lemon cake?"

* * *

She loved his dimples. They always showed up when he laughed, which he did frequently, and Elizabeth considered them to be the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. To think that she was betrothed to him now – that they would soon be man and wife and live a happy life with children – still seemed like a dream to her.

"What are you thinking, my dove?" Ralph asked her.

Elizabeth couldn't help but smile even wider when he called her that. He was always so charming to her!

"Only that I am the happiest lady in all of Christendom," she replied.

His warm hands caressed her hair. "And I the happiest man. When I received the earldom, I'd have never imagined I'd wed such a lovely lady as yourself."

"And I never dreamed to be a Countess. Elizabeth Neville, Countess of Westmoreland. Oh, how beautiful it sounds!"

Ralph laughed again. "My sweet little fool, now you are mocking me. Surely you could have reached even higher. I am still curious that your father allowed you to marry so low."

"I'm not marrying low!" Elizabeth protested. "I couldn't marry a better man! You're handsome and honourable and loving. What else could I, or my father, ask for? You are his ward, after all. He chose you because you are wonderful."

He held up his hands in defence. "I yield, my lady. Forgive me for thinking so low of myself. Of course I have to be wonderful… to deserve someone like you," he said, looking even deeper into her eyes, his face drawing closer to hers. "Good God, Elizabeth, you're such a vision. So absolutely perfectly beautiful and sweet."

"My lord," she returned half-stammering. Her cheeks blushed red. "It is perhaps not proper for us to be so close… until we are wed."

Ralph stopped the second before he would've kissed her, sighing. "Perhaps. Your father would not be pleased to know that his daughter was an improper lady. And I can wait. Only a few more weeks, my sweet."

"Only a few more weeks," she repeated sweetly.

A knock disturbed their moment alone. Without much delay, a man entered the room. He was tall and well-built, his reddish-blonde hair cut short and his face stern. His clothes looked lavish.

"Your Grace," Ralph hurried to say and bowed.

Elizabeth, too, curtseyed before her father like any good daughter would. She was always anxious to please her father, as was perhaps normal for a sweet girl of fifteen, and would not give him any reason to be upset with her. She had always been his darling, after all.

"Lord Neville, I would speak to you. Alone," her father said, leaving no doubt that he meant his words.

"My lady," Ralph said accordingly, bowing to her before she left.

Smiling at him, Elizabeth curtseyed again and left the room to tend to her needlework again. They were discussing the details of the marriage now, she knew. She had already thought about the dress that she was going to wear. Blue it would be, like the cloak of the Virgin Mary. Smiling contently, she picked up her needle and began to sew. Time flew by in an instant as she went through her ideas for the wedding. When the door of her room was finally opened, she could not tell how much time had passed.

"Father?" She asked hopefully.

"Elizabeth. Don't get up," Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, told her. "I have come to speak to you about your betrothal."

Nodding dutifully, Elizabeth put away her needlework and straightened her back. She would listen to him like the obedient daughter she was.

"You will accompany me to court in two weeks' time. There we shall meet with the King and Queen, and you shall be presented to the Prince of Wales," he informed her.

"Very well," she returned, smiling giddily. How exciting! Going to court, at last! Meeting the royal family! Surely to procure their blessing for the marriage, she thought.

"I expect you to look your best and behave even better when conversing with the royal family. Your impression must be flawless."

Elizabeth hastily nodded. "Of course."

"Good," the Duke grunted, looking away from her. "Let us hope your beauty and propriety will suffice to make the Prince love and wed you."

A long silence followed during which Elizabeth's mind slowly pieced together the words of her father's sentence.

"What?" It was all she could utter.

"What, what? I expect you to leave a lasting impression with the King and Prince of Wales. You are to be his bride, after all."

"But…" Elizabeth felt like she was losing grasp of her life. "But I am betrothed to Ralph Neville, father!"

"No longer," he returned. "Lord Ralph has agreed to the engagement be broken. The letters and documents are all sealed, don't worry. I have taken every necessary care to make sure there is no legal impediment to your marriage to Prince Henry."

"No, father… it's… it's a misunderstanding. Ralph… Ralph loves me! Ralph's supposed to be your son-in-law, you said so yourself!"

The Duke nodded. "And he will be. The Earl has agreed to wed your sister, Katherine. I have already given orders for the ceremony to be prepared. They'll wed within the month."

"But… father… no…" Elizabeth was at loss for words. Tears started to fill up her eyes.

"Oh, forget about the Earl. You're worthy of far more than him, Elizabeth. You'll be queen of England one day and bear future kings of England as well. Think of what great an honour it is. Think of how it will foster the interests of your family," her father said. "Forget about Ralph."

Elizabeth snivelled. Each and every of his words had made her cry even more.

"But I can't, father, I can't! I love Ralph! I want to be his wife!"

"You'll do as I say," her father insisted sternly. "You'll swallow these childish tears and put the Earl off your mind. He'll wed your sister and you'll wed the future king. There will be no more discussions about the matter."

She sobbed once more as he turned around to leave. "Father, I…"

"I expect you to be presentable again once we leave. I will see a perfectly smiling maiden and nothing less. Are we agreed on that?"

There was no response, so he repeated his question. Her answer was silent, a barely visible nod, but it was enough to make him content. The Duke opened the door, leaving behind his miserably sobbing daughter.

"But…" She sobbed. "But I love him so much! This… father… This is madness, father."

* * *

"This whole bloody country has gone raving mad."

The words came from the lips of Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, who searched for another arrow to put between his fingers and onto the bow. He narrowed his dark eyes to aim and released the arrow. It soared through the air and missed its aim by only a few fingers.

"Assuming there was a time when ever it wasn't mad," his companion returned, taking a new arrow himself. "Though I can hardly imagine such a time ever existed."

"Perhaps not when the brother's war was fought, but certainly in the years after His Grace ascended to the throne. I have memories of my childhood that are far more pleasant than the days we live in."

"Ah," his companion, older than him by almost ten years and thus in his forties, said smiling. "And here is where you may be mistaken, Lord Grey. A man always has fond memories of his childhood. It is due to the eyes of a child, which cannot see clear, and the kindness of his parents. You never get to see the ugliness of the world until you've grown. Thus, it hits you with even harder a force."

Thomas Grey grunted as his companion released his bow arm. "But all this nonsense about the new Prince of Wales and his need for a bride – surely, even you must admit this is madness, Talbot."

George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury and uncle to the Marquess, nodded. "Aye, but no more so than anything that came before. What but madness do you think drove King Edward to set aside the Kingmaker's daughters and marry that Woodville lady, your grandmother? And what made our good King Henry fall for his new queen, a lady less than half his age?"

"Queen Maud is a gentle soul," Grey disagreed. "And England is in need of her sons."

"England always needs sons. The same madness over and over again. All I can pray for is that we will not face a new brother's war any time soon. So whatever interesting idea you're brooding over – take my advice and forget about it."

Letting down the arrow he was about to release, Grey protested: "I'm not brooding over any idea." He sounded like a boy who'd been put in his place, not like a man of thirty-five. "I was just thinking about all the fuzz people are making now that my cousin Henry is looking for a bride. Have you heard about Buckingham and his daughter?"

Talbot nodded. He was a sturdy man with dark, curly hair and a fatherly look to his face. "Buckingham's a shameless man." That was all he had to say about the matter, it seemed.

"And yet he has made a move. No doubt Surrey will soon follow him, as will the monarchs of Europe."

"Well, if you insist on the topic…" Talbot grumbled. "I highly doubt a Spanish lady will be our new Princess. The last one has not fared too well."

"It might not have been her fault. They say Prince Arthur was sickly long before he died," Grey mused.

"And yet she could not give the kingdom an heir. That's what everyone's so mad about, isn't it? Heirs. Heirs. Everywhere."

Grey laughed. "You are the one to speak, uncle! You have fathered more children than any other man I know!"

"Yes, and I am well aware that God was merciful when he let most of them live through birth. It is a rare grace and I will not look down upon anyone to whom it was denied. Yet, others will think differently. They will blame the Dowager Princess for her lack of sons, and thus all Spaniards," Talbot concluded his though. "I think the Prince will go for an English bride."

"And you really think this is no topic worth troubling yourself with? What if Buckingham succeeds to shove his daughter under Henry's nose? Or worse – what if the Howards succeed?"

"Wine," Talbot ordered the servants. "Well, what would you have me do, Thomas? I can't marry the girls myself and I can't tell the King whom to choose."

"Make your own offer!" Grey insisted. "What about your daughter Margaret? She's nineteen now, isn't she?"

Talbot nodded reluctantly. He liked the Marquess even though they had no common blood. His wife and Grey's mother were sisters, but he had come to love Thomas as if he were his true-blood nephew. However, Grey often acted too rashly and cared far too much about politics for Talbot's taste. He was accustomed to a quieter, more serene life in the country, tending to his estates and relishing the presence of his wife and many children. He cared not so much for the games of the mighty.

"Yet Margaret is all but formally betrothed to Baron Clifford's son."

"Well, then Dorothy," Grey suggested.

"She is only fourteen," his uncle returned frowning. "I was under the impression that we no longer married girls at such young an age here in England. Was I mistaken? Do you want me to offer the prince a frightened little girl?"

"She's hardly a little girl anymore, my Lord. I've danced with her at your wife's birthday feast, remember? She's quite pretty and a proper lady. She'd make for a fine queen."

"And yet she is my daughter and I say that she is not to be wed. Not as of yet."

Thomas Grey downed his wine somewhat angrily. "You really misjudge the importance of these matters, uncle. Whomever my dear cousin picks as his wife will one day sit beside him, but not like Elizabeth of York. Henry is a modern man, a true Renaissance prince, and he will want for a woman who walks beside him, not behind him. His wife shall wield a great influence over him and over England," he said. "Do you really wish for a queen to bear the surname Stafford again? Don't you remember how well that served the last queen?"

"Frankly, I do not care much for kings or queens. I care for my people and my family."

Grey nodded. "And to protect them, you must act before it is too late."

"If you are so determined that Prince Henry shall marry one of our kin, why not offer him a Grey lady? Your sister Eleanor is still unwed."

"And I plan to put her before the King," Grey agreed. "Only I had hoped we might double the chances for a decent Princess of Wales by offering one of your kin as well."

Talbot sighed deeply, scanning his nephew's face for signs of sincerity and earnest concern. He took another sip of win before nodding.

"Fine. I will halt the marriage negotiations with Baron Clifford to present Margaret to the King. Yet if she is not favoured, her betrothal to Sir is back on and will continue as planned. He's good friends with the crown prince, after all, and I'm no Buckingham."

Grey gave him a satisfied smile. "That is all I ever needed to hear you say. Do not worry, uncle, nobody would dare to liken you to Edward Stafford. Let us only hope that our ladies can surpass Stafford's daughter."

"Are you doubting Margaret's beauty," Talbot returned in a miffed voice.

"Not at all, my Lord, but I have also met Lady Elizabeth before, and I must say that she is quite a pleasing sight. That is, if Buckingham sees to it that her tears have dried before she meets with the King."

"Ha." Talbot laughed, almost spitting out his wine. "As if that heartless bastard would even spare a handkerchief for his little daughter! He'd stop at nothing to promote his interests, least of all a broken heart."

Grey nodded in agreement.

"Thomas," the Earl of Shrewsbury continued in a more serious voice, "promise me that we are of a different kind. That we put family before ambitions."

"But uncle, sometimes these two can be inseparable from each other," Grey returned.

"Only to an untrained eye. A wise man knows that every daughter he sacrifices for his own gain is a loss to his soul, for he makes her a pawn in a game of chess. Tell me, Lord Grey: Do you hold much love for your pawns when playing chess?"

They both looked away from each other, feeling no necessity to answer the question. Grey knew perfectly well what his uncle was trying to tell him and Talbot knew his nephew had understood. So instead of commenting on what they already knew, they allowed their gazes to soar above the fields behind Talbot's mansion and enjoy the autumn scenery.

"I promise you, Lord Talbot," Thomas Grey finally said. "Whatever we do, we do it for the betterment of our family – all of them. We'll make sure every sacrifice is worth the gain."

Talbot nodded. Those weren't the exact words he'd hoped to hear, but they were more than could have been expected by a young, ambitious man like the Marquess. This promise would have to do – for the time being.

* * *

Suddenly, it dawned upon him: He had lived for far too long. Scanning through the numerous letters he had received since his eldest son's death, King Henry could not resist admitting to it. Everyone was shoving their daughters into his face now, offering them like expensive whores for his son to bed, all in the vain hope their offspring would one day wear a crown. All these people, they saw his son for what he was: The future.

Torn between bitterness and sadness, the King read name after name in the vain attempt to find his son a bride. Half of these carefully written names meant nothing to him. He knew their fathers, yes, but of the ladies themselves he had never heard. They were young and pretty, no doubt, and that he didn't know them only allowed one conclusion: That he was old now.

Hidden amongst those letters, however, he found one that caught his attention. He immediately recognised the artistic Spanish handwriting. Catalina, he thought. Oh, that woman again! From the moment she had set foot on his island, she had puzzled and bewildered him with her manners. For once, the King truly did not know how to feel about someone. His daughter-in-law was beautiful, terribly so even, and certainly of much nobler blood than he or his children. But she was also stubborn and proud, refusing to attend his wedding to Maud or to congratulate them on the birth of their daughter. Henry could not see sense in her.

Yawning he opened her letter and skimmed through it as well. That was when his eyes darkened. He read the sentences more closely now, even twice, thrice, but they stayed the same.

"You… Spanish…" he mumbled angrily.

She knew, her letter read, that England's last attempt at a ruling queen had failed, but she also reminded him that the incident had happened centuries ago, and that in the light of Renaissance, things had changed. She invoked her famous mother, Her Most Catholic Majesty Isabel, and from this she drew the conclusion that God had willed her daughter, Mary, to inherit the throne. He let the parchment down.

How could she? How dare she? What had caused a woman like her to be so foolish as to assume that she could command him, the King, the victor of Bosworth Field, the ender of the brother's war, to accept a young, half-foreign girl as his heiress over his son, a grown man? Henry searched the letter again for any appeal to him, to his mercy, to anything, but he found only pride. It was the only thing he'd ever seen in Catherine, so perhaps it shouldn't have come as a surprise.

But she did have a point. Arthur had been popular in Wales despite his faults – there might be some who'd rather see his daughter on the throne than Prince Henry, whom his father knew to be carefree and passionate. If that were the case, a new civil war was sure.

A shiver ran down the King's spine. No more civil wars. He'd been born into one and it had forged him into a sharp, hard blade. He'd done what was necessary, but he also didn't wish the same fate upon his children and grandchildren. England had prospered during the peaceful years his lasting reign had brought – he would not see her torn and bleeding again. Not for any foolish woman's wish, not for anything. And there was only one way to secure England's future.

He had to find his son a wife.

* * *

**NEXT CHAPTER: A game is set up when a bride is chosen.**

* * *

**Explanations: **

So, in this world, both Arthur and Henry VII have survived longer than in history. This meant that Arthur's and Catherine's marriage was consummated and that Henry had to remarry after Elizabeth of York's death. Though Arthur is dead, you'll hear about him in retrospect soon. And in case you wondered who all these people and names were, here's a short who-is-who in order of appearance:

Henry, Prince of Wales – 21 years

Charles Brandon (no Duke as of yet) – 28

Sir Edward Howard, Admiral of the fleet, second son to the Earl of Surrey, close friend to the crown prince– 35

Marguerite of Angoulême, sister of the future King Francis of France, widowed Duchess of Alencon by right of her marriage – 20

King Louis XII of France – 50

Queen Maud, formerly Maud Green, real life mother to Catherine Parr (who is Henry VII's new-born daughter in this world) – 20

Lady Elizabeth Boleyn née Howard – 32

Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, patriarch of the Howard family – 69

Agnes Tilney, his second wife, (later) known to "Tudors" fans as the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk – 35

Thomas Howard the younger, freshly widowed courtier – 39

Edmund Howard, his good-for-nothing brother – 34

Muriel Howard, their recently widowed, heavily pregnant sister – 25

Queen Anne of France, Duchess of Brittany in her own right – 35

Catherine of Aragon, Dowager Princess of Wales – 27

Princess Mary, her young daughter – 6 (she will be somewhat like the canon Mary Tudor, though she is exactly ten years older, being born in 1506)

Germaine of Foix, Queen of Aragon – 24

King Ferdinand of Aragon – 56

Don Inigo Lopez de Mendoza y Zuniga, clergyman and courtier – 36 (yes, he's the future ambassador Mendoza and yes, he's a clergyman)

Lady Elizabeth Stafford, eldest daughter of the Duke of Buckingham and a renowned beauty – 15

Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, her father's ward – 15

Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham – 34

Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, whose father was the eldest son of Elizabeth Woodville and thus half-brother of Elizabeth of York, making him Prince Henry's cousin – 35

George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Lord High Steward of Ireland, Knight of the Garter – 44

Margaret and Dorothy Talbot, his daughters – 19 and 14

Eleanor Grey, sister to the Marquess of Dorset – 16

King Henry VII, King of England – 55

**Author's Notes: **

Please let me know what you think of the outset and approach of this story. It came to me long ago, but only now could I manage to finish the last scenes. I hope you've enjoyed this part and can tell me which characters you like / want to see more of, and whether you think using so many historical characters adds to the story or simply confuses you. And please also tell me who you want to see as Henry's future queen! Reviews greatly appreciated. Cheers, Rahja


	2. The Chosen Bride

Chapter 2 … in which a future queen is chosen

* * *

Late Autumn 1512

* * *

"They are… quite multitudinous," Prince Henry of England commented on the mountain of letters and pictures piling up on his father's royal desk.

His father, King Henry, sneered. "They are not as numerous as we might have expected. England is no longer unaffected by European quarrels, it seems."

"But there are offers from the continent," Henry said. It sounded almost like a question, as if he feared that the monarchs of Europe didn't consider him worthy of their daughters.

"There are. King Louis has offered his elder daughter and his distant niece."

The Prince frowned. "And the Spanish?"

"Nothing," his father returned dryly. "But we should not mind that, anyway. King Ferdinand is a rake and a turncoat. He still owes us part of the dowry promised for the last lady he wanted my sons to wed. We should feel assuaged that they are not pestering us with their false promises."

"Perhaps we might gain the dowry if Princess Catherine were to marry the new Prince of Wales," Henry dared to utter. While he was not exactly eager to decide upon the matter of his marriage, he certainly wouldn't mind someone like his brother's wife to warm his bed. From the first time they'd met, Henry had admired Catherine for her pureness and beauty. Secretly he'd always considered it a waste that she was married to his dull brother.

"I do not care about the dowry," his father said, much to his surprise. The old miser neglecting an opportunity to amass money? "You are not marrying the Infanta."

"She is a very eligible bride, Your Majesty," Henry highlighted.

The King nodded. "And your brother's widow."

"We could procure Papal dispensation."

"No," his father returned with a face even sterner than usual. "I will not allow the Spanish woman to spite our dynasty even further by denying you sons as well. I am beginning to believe it is all a scheme of Ferdinand and his advisors to weaken England. No, son. We must find you a younger and more fertile wife."

Henry sighed. He'd expected as much, but part of him would have loved to wed Catherine. She was very beautiful, after all. Half-heartedly, he began rummaging through the letters and pictures. Many small likenesses had been sent to him in the hope that he might fall in love with them instantly. Frankly, he would have loved to. He had always had a romantic streak and wished for nothing but a wife whom he could worship. He wanted to be Lancelot courting his very own Guinevere. Sadly, none of the pictures caused him to feel just that.

"Do you know these names?" It was his father's voice.

"Most of them," Henry replied, picking one of the pictures. "Buckingham's daughter?"

"Very young. We had better not pin our hopes on a fifteen-year-old."

"Yet she seems mature for her age," Henry returned. "And quite pretty."

"That should be of no concern to us, son. We are looking for someone who is eligible to be your bride and who can bear you sons. I will not risk the peace of England for your proud desires," his father pointed out. "What do you think about the other offers, then?"

Gnawing his teeth, the Prince looked through them. "Eleanor Grey… I believe I have met her once. Also quite young, so ruled out by your standards."

"And the daughters of Lord Talbot? I have a mind to make him member of the Privy Council. He is a very loyal and honourable man, which is more than I can say for most of my advisors."

"He is indeed." Henry nodded. "But his daughter Margaret, isn't she betrothed to Henry Clifford?"

The King seemed disinterested. "Not to my knowledge. No contracts or agreements signed, otherwise Talbot would not dare present her to us. He's an honourable man."

"No, father, I know for a fact that the betrothal is all but finalised. You might have forgotten, but Lord Clifford is a good friend of mine. He has spoken to me about his future fiancée several times, praising her highly and speaking of his desire to marry her. How could I step between them and still look Clifford in the eye?"

"You are far too sentimental, boy. It is your mother's fault for raising you with your sisters instead of preparing you for Church life sooner. She always had that soft spot for you in her heart," the King said soberly.

Henry did not like what he heard. To hear his father speak derisively of his saintly mother and her wonderful treatment of her precious boy didn't please him at all, but he swallowed his anger. His father was the king. You did not speak up against your king.

"And yet Clifford is my friend. God will not grant me and Lady Talbot sons if our marriage is based upon the ruins of my friend's happiness," Henry insisted.

The argument seemed to have struck a nerve. His father paused for a second before nodding. "And the other Talbot girl?"

"Fourteen. If Stafford's daughter is too young, then she is as well." Henry sat down sighing. "There seems to be no satisfactory option."

"How can you think that when the noblest lords of England and Europe are offering their daughters to you? Do you want to appear ungrateful?" His father reprimanded him. "One of these women you will bed and sire sons with. And I will have no more delays about it. You will make a choice. Today."

Burying his face inside his hands, the Prince pondered his situation. There had been a time when he would have given everything for the choice he had now – to know that he would marry a sweet little wife and have sons with her. Much better than Church life! But now, the choice no longer seemed so pleasant. It rather seemed… very final.

"Muriel Howard?" He found himself asking. He did not like to entertain the idea of marrying his deceased friend's widow, but remembering his friend Edward's words, he knew he'd like to have Edward as his brother-in-law.

"Surrey is pushing seconds under our nose in the vain hope of becoming Norfolk again," the King sneered. "But he fought for Richard. He had his chance for loyalty and he chose the prince-murderer over me. He is much mistaken if he thinks his betrayal is forgotten."

"The Howards have been loyal for over twenty years now," Henry objected.

"Do you answer back to me on purpose, boy? It seems you disagree with everything I have to say. Do you deem yourself wiser than your king?"

Henry bit his lips. "No, Your Grace."

"Good. Then it is settled. You'll not marry the Howard girl. You may not be your brother, but you are my son and you'll wear the English crown one day. You're worth more than a woman with another man's child in her belly." The King paused, then he fumbled through the pictures and presented his son with two. "The French?"

Henry took them from his father and scrutinised the pictures. He knew a little something about both ladies – mostly soldier's talk from the battlefield, and since they had been fighting the French, it was somehow biased. But he knew enough to say that one of them clearly did not fit his picture of Guinevere.

"The Princess is said to be no oil painting," he found words to express his thoughts. "I'd prefer Duchess Marguerite, then."

"Henry," his father said sternly, calling him by his first name, which was highly unusual. "I have told you before that beauty matters not much. I married your mother for duty and only later learned to love her."

"But mother was a beautiful lady," Henry answered back again. "Would you not rather have me marry a lady who pleases my eye and thus increases my chance of begetting a son on her? For if she pleased me, I would certainly find it in my passions to bed her and sire strong sons. Sons to carry on the Tudor name."

Silence followed, accompanied by a long scrutinising gaze from his father. He could see the disapproval in it. He knew that his father condemned him for being passion-driven and loving, traits which his father lacked completely and considered to be weaknesses.

"You are my heir and you will find a means to get sons no matter your wife's face," his father finally decreed. "But I accord with you on this stance, that the Duchess is a wiser choice than Princess Claude. She brings with her a duchy and a good relationship with her brother, the future French king. If you made her your dutiful wife, she would prove beneficial in influencing the French."

Henry gasped. "But we're at war with the French!"

"And we have been offered a hefty sum to abstain from further military measures. Louis has finally found it in himself to serve us with a decent offer for our friendship and he is adamant that it be sealed with blood."

"And you are considering his offer?"

"It is worth sparing a thought. And from what I have heard, the Duchess of Alencon is no disagreeable sight. You and I might find her the right choice for reaching an understanding."

Henry looked his father in the eye, studying the determination he suddenly found in them. "It seems Your Majesty has made a choice."

"I am being reasonable, son. I wish you'd do the same."

Sighing, he found himself answering: "And I fully agree with Your Grace. It is a wise choice, both in regard to politics and monetary means. And if the Duchess is a pleasing sight, then I am pleased to obey Your Grace's orders and wed her."

"Good." The King nodded. "You see, I feared God had abandoned me when your brother died, for He left me with only you to inherit my throne, and while you possess your mother's charms, you also inherited the Yorkist flaw of a romantic soul. It cost your grandfather Edward his life, ultimately, since marrying Elizabeth Woodville alienated his most powerful allies. Hence I always feared you would repeat his folly, but I find that your wartime experience has made you grow. I can only hope your newfound seriousness prevails and that, in time, you will understand that I am only labouring in your best interests by arranging this marriage. Duchess Marguerite will be a good wife to you and a good queen when the time comes."

Those words were more honest than anything he'd heard from his father in years, perhaps ever, so Henry was too baffled to say anything. Instead, he simply nodded, a knot of anxiousness building up in his stomach. His future was decided. Marguerite would be his wife.

* * *

Edward Howard sat by the cosy fireplace of a darkened room, cursing his father and stepmother for being heartless and cruel. Once it had become known that his sister Muriel had failed to attract the Crown Prince's attention and be nominated as his wife, his father had rather coldly abandoned her. She was left with no one now despite her pregnancy.

"Ahhhh!"

Muriel's screams were heart-wrecking. For a brief second, Edward cherished the fact that he had never sired children despite having being married for quite a while. How could any man wish his beloved to go through these pains? And now, Muriel did not even have her husband beside her, for he lay dead in the stomach of the sunken Cordelière. Her sister Elizabeth had planned to come and stay with her for the birth, but her mistress Queen Maud had caught a fever which required her chief lady-in-waiting's presence. Thomas, too, had been forced to absence, having to deal with important matters concerning their estates. And Edmund… well, Edmund never cared much for anyone but himself.

So Edward had requested a leave from the battlefield which had only been granted at the pressure of Prince Henry. He knew very well that he had his friend to thank for this kindness and was determined to repay him one day. Perhaps he would not need to return to the fleet, anyway. With Henry betrothed to the French girl now, their days of war might be numbered.

"Thomas!" It was Muriel's whimpering voice.

Hearing her calling for her deceased husband broke Edward's heart. He had been friends with Sir Thomas Knyvett and missed the man, but it was even harder for Muriel. She might not have been too fond of her first husband, Viscount Lisle, but she had loved the second, Thomas, with all her heart. Now she and her four little – soon to be five – children were alone in this world. With any more bad luck, the Earl of Surrey would cut her allowances in his anger. Edward was already making plans on how to ask Prince Henry for help. He was sure Henry would not hesitate to support Muriel, if only for Knyvett's sake.

"How is she? Is it over?" He asked anxiously, jumping to his feet as one of the midwives left the room with blood-stained sheets all over her arms.

"The lady is losing much blood. We are doing the best we can."

"But she will pull through, will she not?"

The midwife escaped his gaze. "We are doing the best we can," she repeated.

As she watched her leave, Edward sunk to his knees. He'd never been too fond of praying, but suddenly he felt an incredible urge to beg God for mercy. Mercy for his poor sister who had suffered so much already. Mercy for her little innocent children.

"Let her live. I'll do anything, but let her live, her and the child," he mumbled. "What do you want? Should I be a better man? Less arrogant, perhaps, or less debauched? More pious? I'll do anything. But please… she's my sister. She's one of the few in my family I truly feel for. You cannot take her away from me… or from her children. Do not leave them motherless. I beg you, Lord Jesus."

The screams continued, and they continued during the night. Some time – he had no recollection of it – Edward must have fallen asleep on the floor before the fireplace. He only became aware of his situation when a servant woke him.

"Sir Edward, you must come," the man insisted.

"My sister? Is she well? Has she given birth?"

The servant nodded. Edward rose to his feet instantly, shaking off all fatigue with ease. Hurriedly he rushed into the birthing chamber. It had a disgusting stench of blood and faeces about it that almost made him withdraw, but for Muriel's sake he kept pushing forward. Before he could even reach her bed, a midwife present him with a small bundle.

"The babe? Is it…?"

"A boy, Sir Edward. A very large boy."

A smile came upon his face as his new-born nephew was placed in his arms. Now, he regretted never having sired children. Just looking at the suckling's tiny nose did something to his heart that he enjoyed very much.

"And my sister?"

The midwife's face darkened somewhat. "She is not very well."

Carrying his nephew carefully, Edward ventured to the bed and looked at his sister. She looked wretched, to say the least, her hair lank and her face ghostly pale. Large pearls of sweat covered every inch of her skin. But what troubled him most was the huge stain of blood on her sheets.

"Sister? Muriel, dear?"

A mumble showed him she'd heard.

Now, Edward didn't know what to say. He'd never been a father. He'd never been in a situation only remotely similar. "Sister, you have a son. Will you not name him?"

"Edward?" It was a question, followed by fluttering eyelids.

"Yes, it is I, Edward. I have your son with me."

"You have come…," she whispered.

He nodded again. "Yes. Prince Henry intervened with the King on my behalf so I could leave the battlefield. He made sure you were not alone."

A weak smile appeared on his sister's face. "Henry…"

"He's a good boy. Shame he couldn't marry you," Edward said smiling as well, though in his case, it was a desperate smile. "What will you name your son?"

"Henry…"

Edward looked at the boy. "Henry? You wish to name him Henry?"

Muriel repeated the word once more, sounding even weaker than before. Edward couldn't tell whether she still understood what was happening around her.

"My sister is not well. Fetch a physician. Quickly."

"But we have no means with which to pay a doctor, Sir Edward. The Earl deprived my Lady of many financial goods."

"Dammit, I'll pay the bloody doctor myself if I have to, just get him here already!" He yelled angrily. Immediately, his nephew began to wail. "Hush, little one, I didn't mean it… I'm just trying to help your mother. Hush now. Hush."

He rocked the boy in his arms as he had seen his sister Elizabeth do with her children when they were little, but frankly, he had no idea what he was doing. It just felt right to do at least something and not just stand by idly as his sister slipped away from life. The midwives hurried around cleaning the linens and bringing fresh water to his sister, but whatever they tried, it seemed fruitless. Their bustling voices mingled with his nephew's cries that seemed to numb reality for Edward. He barely realised when a physician finally came and sent him out the room promising to do everything within his might.

Taking his nephew outside to the fireplace, Edward left them behind already knowing what was about to happen. His heart felt strangely empty at the thought. Hours later, his nephew had finally found some sleep in his arms when the physician left the room, his hands stained with blood and his face worn out. He seemed truly sorry as he shook his head.

"Forgive me, Sir Edward. I could not help her. She is with God now."

"I understand. Maud, please bring my purse and pay the good man," Edward found himself saying.

The physician nodded gratefully before leaving him alone with his grief. But strangely, Edward couldn't bring himself to feel grief – not yet. All he could feel was sorry for his poor little nephew never to know his own mother. He looked at the boy who'd opened his eyes silently without wailing. The eyes were green as grass.

"Your mother is an angel now. But I promise to tell you about her when you're older. You won't be alone," he said solemnly. "I promise you that, Henry."

* * *

Marguerite was busy supervising her maids as they were packing when an usher announced a visitor. Astounded by the name he said, the Duchess of Alencon turned around, her eyes widening both with surprise and glee.

"Francis," she yelped.

Smiling warmly at her, a handsome man with curly black hair wrapped her in his arms and swung her around.

"Why are you here? I didn't expect you to…"

"Why, to wish you well before you depart. To see my beloved sister again before she parts with her home," he said in a playful tone. "Mother would have loved to come as well, but she has been quite ill for the past weeks, so I forbade it."

Frowning her head with concern, Marguerite asked: "Is it serious? Will she get better?"

"I have every confidence that she will, given enough time and rest. Which is why I could not allow her to travel to Paris. You know how arduous it can be to stop her from things she has set her mind on… but it is what is best for her," Francis assured her. "Do not worry. You will see her again."

"Then I am much relieved. I am sorry I could not go home to say goodbye, but the English insisted I left immediately. I imagine they are quite afraid King Louis would change his mind yet again and withdraw the dowry offer."

"Yes, a very generous offer indeed," Francis said sneering. "Does he actually think a woman of your qualities needs such high incentives to be chosen?"

"Frankly I believe it has little to do with me. The King wants peace with England because he is much troubled elsewhere and King Henry has a well-known fondness for money. None of my qualities play a big role in the bargain, I'm afraid."

Francis smiled, gently taking a streak of her hair and putting it back behind her ear. "Ah, but they should, my sweet sister. There is no bigger prize in Europe than you. Where else could any prince find noble birth, beauty, and wits, if not in you?"

She returned his smiled and wanted to chide him for being so obviously flattering, but before she could, his face turned dark.

"Tell me you really want this," he insisted.

"Of course I want it. It is a great opportunity for France and for me," Marguerite was quick to reply.

"Are those your words or his?" Francis asked, emphasizing the word 'his' without mentioning a name. To both siblings, however, it was clear that he was referring to the King of France.

"Those are my words, dear brother," Marguerite assured him. "It is a rare chance that my intentions should match those of His Majesty, but it appears to have pleased our Lord to see it fit. You knew I had no mind of dying an old spinster. And being queen of England… you must admit, it is a chance worth grasping. Think only of yourself and how you could benefit from it once you wear the crown. We'll have the west of Europe under our rule, Francis!"

He nodded. "I never doubted the political chances your betrothal would generate for us… I was merely questioning if this is what you wished. You know how dear you are to me."

Now she nodded as well, willing to say something but lacking the words. Still, it was more than true. Their father had died when they had been but toddlers, so they had grown up with their mother alone. Louise of Savoy had never remarried and with no other siblings to turn to, Marguerite and Francis had grown very close. She was certainly aware of his faults – of which he had plenty – but she considered him to be a very likeable person nonetheless and prayed for the day he would succeed as King of France. Since this path had been destined for him, Marguerite had struggled to be as useful to him as she could – only to realize that perhaps, she could be even more than just his sister.

But she couldn't tell him that. She couldn't tell him that she had asked King Louis to send her to England because she wanted to be more than just a duchess. She could have remained that, a happy and loyal subject first to Louis and later to her brother, but somehow she felt that she wanted more.

"I am convinced that you will be the best queen England has ever had – especially from a French point of view," Francis interrupted her thoughts.

Marguerite nodded. "I will labour ceaselessly to bring about a prosperous future for both countries. For what else is it that God asks of me? I believe not he sent me to this world as I am only to bear sons and look the part. If he wished so, why would he have blessed me with learning and a mind of my own?"

"Indeed, why would he… He must will it, sweet sister. Who can call themselves a man when they do not aspire to change the world?"

Marguerite nodded fervently. "That is my aim. I shall tell you in all confidence: When I learned of the betrothal, I knew it was God asking me to play my part in his plans. He is giving me the power to change the world for the better, to foster peace, understanding, and perpetual friendship. When I die, Francis, I wish to leave a world better than the one I was born into."

He smiled, no, almost laughed. "I had no idea you were such an idealist."

"It's not idealism to hope, since God gave us the blessing of hope himself. One day, of that I am sure, all the countries of Europe shall no longer be plagued with war and disease, men and women and children will be properly fed and clothed, and they will read the gospels themselves and realize for themselves just how much God has blessed them with the gift of life."

"Alas, dear sister, it seems a beautiful dream, yet a dream nonetheless," Francis tried to dissuade her. "But the Prince of Wales is a dreamer as well, from what I have heard, so your ambitions might suit his interests. So at least I can believe that you might find some common point in your marriage."

Marguerite smiled. "I will do my best to make myself agreeable to him. Though I am well aware of my duties, I have no mind to act purely out of duty. Surely I can find a measure of happiness with the Prince of Wales once we get to know each other."

"I sincerely hope so. And if he does make you unhappy, make sure to let me know. I'll challenge him to a wrestling match and knock him to the ground for you," Francis offered.

"Well, thank you," Marguerite replied laughing, "but I'd rather you didn't beat up my husband so soon. We want peace with England, not another battle."

He nodded. "Yes, we want peace, and we're sending them the biggest peace offer we could have made. I only hope the English know how to appreciate the beauty of our gift."

"Oh, hush you, stop flattering me. You're my brother, not my lover. Do not make my ladies imagine otherwise," Marguerite told him off.

To banter with her just a little further, Francis embraced her again and smiled. "Perhaps I am only jealous of Prince Henry. He'll get such a beautiful bride."

There was an unmistakable measure of bitterness in his voice. Marguerite looked him in the eyes, trying to be reassuring, but she couldn't help but feel for him. He wasn't getting a pretty wife, no, far from that. Marguerite couldn't bring herself to think badly about her cousin, Princess Claude, for she was truly a sweet girl, but she lacked any interesting personal traits that could have made up for her hunched back. The odds were not in favour of her upcoming marriage to Francis, who loved nothing more than beautiful women. There was nothing she could say to sugar-coat this fact.

"Everything will be well in time, little brother," Marguerite finally said. "It is the Lord's will that we should marry whom we are betrothed to and I am certain it will be for the best."

Francis smiled half-heartedly. "If only I had your confidence, Marguerite…" His voice died down. "I wish you all the best in England," he then added almost voicelessly. "I hope you'll find what you're looking for."

* * *

Archduchess Margaret of Austria was one of the few people who did not fail to live up to their reputation.

And what a reputation that was: As the eldest daughter of Emperor Maximilian, Margaret had been named Governess of the Low Countries in 1507 and played a decisive role in the formation of the League of Cambrai. Moreover, she acted as guardian to her young nephew Charles since his mother, Queen Joanna of Castile, had gone mad after the death of her husband, who happened to be Margaret's brother. She also acted as an intermediary for her father and negotiated treaties with ease. And she possessed one of the richest libraries and art collections in the whole of Europe. In short, she was easily the most powerful woman in Europe at a time when women were not expected to wield any power at all.

One might be tempted to assume that she had just been lucky to have been Maximilian's daughter or Philip's sister, or the wife to her two late husbands, but meeting her in person would soon make you realise the opposite. Margaret of Austria was as impressive a woman as it gets.

Of average height but notable erectness, Margaret could command respect simply by appearing in front of someone. Her dark hair framed her pale, sharply contoured face graced by two fathomless eyes who seemed to stare into one's soul. There was an air of superiority about her, expressed only subtly in smiles and gestures, yet it was physically perceivable. She possessed a presence that even very skilled diplomats could not fully withstand.

Thomas Boleyn was no different from them. Had he believed his embassy to the Netherlands a waltz, Margaret's dancing skills had surely taught him a lesson by now. But where others flinched, the shrewd courtier Boleyn was intrigued. A woman who commanded such respect while possessing wits and power at the same time might just be the ally he needed to fulfil his lifetime goals and advance to titles and ranks back home in England. He would surely not do his father-in-law a favour by proving him right and ending up a failure. He would prevail where others had shipwrecked. He would find an ally in Margaret of Austria, whatever the price.

"Tell me about the Prince of Wales, Sir Thomas," she urged him one day.

He nodded eagerly. "Well, His Highness is a young man of many talents. He is an able jouster and well learned in several languages, including Latin. He is also very pious and a stark defender of the faith."

"Oh, is that so?" The Archduchess's voice sounded somewhat ironic. "Such a pity I couldn't have married him, then, is it not? Hm, but I guess he'll do well with the French girl. She's younger than me and certainly less likely to object when a man of such youth and virility seeks to beleaguer her bed demanding his nuptial rights."

Boleyn swallowed his words in a moment of shock. Margaret's straightforwardness still surprised him at many occasions, and sometimes he even found himself wondering if her subtle innuendos were but the words of a twice-widowed woman or an invitation for him to show her she was wrong. It might seem odd to assume that a woman of her position could desire him… but with the Archduchess, you could never be sure of anything.

"In any case, I would like you to convey my best wishes to the couple and King Henry. We do not want him to doubt our friendship and our treaty of commerce regarding Flemish cloth. We want to make him beholden to us. Perhaps a gift might suit?"

"Splendid idea, Your Highness," Boleyn quickly assured her. "Do you have anything in mind or would you like for me to make a suggestion?"

"You're English, Sir Thomas, and a man. You'd know better than me. I am sure you'll find something to please the Prince of Wales and his father. Trusting the word in the street, I might just send King Henry a bag of gold, but it just seems such bad style, don't you agree?"

Again, the irony dripping from her words baffled him for a second. Boleyn nodded insecurely.

"Ah, it's so lovely to have a good chat in the morning, and with so entertaining a partner as yourself. Tell me, Sir Thomas, how long is you king allowing you to stay here?"

"I… Your Highness, I am not aware of His Majesty's further intentions concerning my person, although I was led to believe that I might leave by early spring next year."

"Really?" Margaret frowned. "Well, such a pity. I was not very fond of your predecessor… or your two colleagues. I'd rather you'd stay a little longer, you and your delicious little daughter. How old is she again?"

"Anne? Almost twelve, Your Highness."

"I would have bet the rings on my right hand she was older," Margaret returned with feigned surprise in her voice. "She seems so mature at times… and yet so delightfully young and carefree at others. You should really consider yourself blessed to have fathered such a daughter."

"I do," Boleyn assured her. "Anne has a great future ahead of her."

"As a knight's daughter? Do not mistake my question for incivility, but do you really expect the Lords of England to fight for the hand of a knight's daughter, however witty she may be?"

Boleyn wanted to respond, but there was nothing he could say to weaken her argument. It was his weakest spot and she had put her finger right unto it.

"And yet, she is still young, and given time she can be groomed to appear more than a knight's daughter," Margaret carried on in a carefree tone as if she was oblivious to the insult she had just dealt her counterpart. "Bringing her here was certainly a step in the right direction. She can only benefit from European influences and learning. Maybe when you leave for England, you should let her stay here with me."

"With you?" Boleyn now asked somewhat dumbfounded. "You'd be willing to take in a simple knight's daughter as your maid?"

The Archduchess laughed for a brief moment. "Oh, you! Yes, I would. She is almost of an age to serve me and I have every confidence she will accomplish this task impeccably. We might even find her a rich nobleman to marry."

"I thank Your Highness very humbly for this great opportunity and honour. I'll gladly send you my daughter as a maid… however I'd rather see her married to an Englishman when the time comes."

"Fine," she agreed. "By the time she leaves my household, she'll be skilled enough in courtly life and diplomatic affairs to be a queen of England if you wish."

Boleyn nodded. "I have to thank you again. What father could ask for more?"

* * *

The Marquess of Dorset and the Earl of Shrewsbury had not met each other since before they had presented their relatives to the King and had been denied the privilege of marrying them into the royal family. Grey had feared being told off by his uncle for his foolish enterprise while Talbot had been at lack of words with which to placate his nephew for the loss in a game he had deemed so important.

Now, however, as the days grew shorter and the arrival of the future Princess of Wales drew nearer, they had both come to court again and agreed on a gathering. Even if they had lost the first part, the game was still on, Grey had reminded his uncle in a letter, and now they had to discuss their strategy anew.

And so they met again, two of the most powerful men in the country, on a foggy autumn evening in the rooms of Grey at Whitehall Palace. They had dined together speaking about anything but their nuptial politics, but now that they sat by the fire and drank ale, Grey dared to approach the subject.

"I hear the betrothal of your daughter to Clifford has been finalised?"

"Indeed it has. And in truth, I am quite pleased with the outcome. Margaret is happy to wed young Clifford, who is of noble birth and honourable character. What father could ask for more?"

Grey nodded, looking at his ale rather than his conversational partner. "Do give my blessings to the happy couple. I am glad they should find happiness together," he said. "But still, I cannot refrain from thinking how much more England would have prospered had your daughter wed the Prince."

"He declined the offer," Talbot reminded him sternly. "He didn't want my daughter, he preferred a French princess. But I cannot begrudge His Highness. I pray he will find happiness in this marriage."

"Happiness?" Grey raised both his eyebrows. "Who cares about happiness when it comes to political marriages? Now that we'll have a French queen, we might just be a vassal of France in a few years. Do you wish for England to become a dribbling puppy like Scotland?"

"Your misgivings are far-fetched, dear nephew. The English are very much unlike the Scots and Prince Henry is far too proud a man to let his wife rule him."

"Oh, but she's French! You know how they are, with their debonair manners and perfect courtier smiles… Prince Henry might be used to sweet English damsels, but I am not taken in by the illusion that he will be able to resist the French woman. She'll play her cards well and twist him around her little finger in the blink of an eye."

Talbot sighed deeply. He was not fond of his nephew's interest in politics, nor did he share in all his fears, but he knew he could no longer withdraw from these matters as he used to.

"I've been appointed to the Privy Council," he said instead of responding to Grey's predication.

Grey nodded. "The news has been broken to me, yes, and I congratulate you. It's good to have a sane man in there at last, but all the more so I must urge you not to underestimate the matter of the French woman."

"And what if I didn't?" Talbot returned angrily, his voice growing louder as he spoke. "Since you're always so quick to suggest what I am to do, then bloody well tell me. Should I receive the Duchess with distrust and unkindliness, only to make her my enemy? Should I even try to use the ridiculously small amount of power that I, as member of the Privy Council, now hold to stop the impending wedding? Should I make a whore of my daughters and send them to the Prince's bed in order to distract him from his new bride? Tell me! I am but a country bumpkin, Thomas, inexperienced in the games of slander and dissention, so please enlighten me with your insights into the latest fashion of intrigues. What am I to do?"

A moment of silence followed his furious cascade, interrupted only by the cracking of wood in the fireplace.

"I did not mean to insult you, uncle," Grey tried to conciliate him. "I was only saying we should be prudent with regard to Duchess Marguerite. For all we know, she could be a French spy, a wolf in sheep's clothing…"

"Or she could be a gentle lady worthy of admiration and endorsement. What then? I tell you this, Thomas: I have lived forty-four years assuming the best about everyone until proven otherwise. Am I dead yet? Have I suffered immoderate dolour? No, I haven't, for it is God's will that we should love our neighbours as ourselves, not distrust them and meet them with hate."

Thomas Grey turned his gaze away like a beaten child. He ought to have never started this conversation.

"Forgive my tone, nephew. I was outraged when you only meant well. You have our family's best interests at heart, and England's too, and for that God will surely forgive your distrust. But I consider it unwise to receive our future Queen uncordially. Who knows? She might just turn out our ally rather than our foe. For all we know, she is alien to this country and will be in need of friends. Better us than Buckingham or the Howards, don't you think?"

Now, Grey turned back to him, a small spark of hope glimmering in his eyes. "Definitely. And if she does manage to rule Prince Henry, any way to power will be through her. Pardon my harshness, I did not think the matter through. You are absolutely right – we should befriend the foe we cannot beat. What about we offered one of our kin to her as a lady-in-waiting?"

"It would be very honourable for our daughters to serve the future queen. But… every noble family will try to push their sisters into her household. How can we make sure we succeed?"

"Let me think of something. You concentrate on your daughter's wedding and a warm reception for the future Princess of Wales and leave the rest to me."

Talbot nodded and put a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "I am glad we have reached an understanding. I would not have liked us to disagree further on the matter of Duchess Marguerite. You see… I much prefer living in the countryside, but if my king commands me to be at court, at least I want my life here to be as free of backstabbing as possible. If God is gracious, the French bride will feel the same and reward me for my friendliness. And if she does not… at least I can say I shall one day face my maker with a clear conscience."

Grey looked quite agreeing. "Let us hope that day will not come for a long time. You are much needed still, uncle," he said. "And let us also pray that the French woman will be as agreeable as you say, for it matters greatly if she is lovely or ambitious. I'd even wager to say this: the whole future of this country depends on the contents of her heart."

* * *

**NEXT CHAPTER: **A prince meets his future bride and a new pawn is introduced

**Author's Notes:**

I actually wanted this chapter to contain so much more and for Marguerite to come to England, but it turned out longer than I expected, so I decided to cut it in half and give you the first part sooner instead of finishing a brobdingnagian chapter much later. Next chapter, however, bride and groom will meet and we'll also see more of the English royal family, e.g. Princess Mary Rose.

As for those who wanted Henry to marry Anne Boleyn: Even if you assume her earliest possible birthdate (1501), which I do in this story, she is not yet 12 and thus too young to marry even by the standards of the time. Don't despair, however, for she will play a decisive role once she gets older.

Instead I opted to go for real-life Marguerite de Navarre to marry Henry for two reasons: First, there is historical evidence that her mother Louise of Savoy tried to marry her to Henry when she was ten, so it doesn't seem too far-fetched. Second, she seems to have been a very interesting person, specifically for her great learnedness, but mostly for her character which seems to have managed spanning the gap between extreme piety and notable open-mindedness. Allegedly, she was termed the "first modern woman", so I thought it interesting to examine what would happen if such a woman were to marry a man who was described as the perfect Renaissance prince in his youth but turned out to be a wife-murdering tyrant in his later years.

What do you think of my choice? And what will happen? Will their marriage ensure peace, will they find happiness? Which noble family will rise and which will fall? Will Princess Mary still manage to be with Charles Brandon despite him not being a duke (since Henry has no powers yet to grant him such a title)? Will Anne of Brittany find a way to secure her homeland's independence? And what will happen to Anne Boleyn, protégée of the mesmerizing Archduchess Margaret? Stay tuned for the story which will soon see royal death warrants, humiliating war defeats, a princess in the Tower, and a prince defying his own father for the ones he loves… Reviews and answers to my questions are greatly appreciated! Cheers, Rahja


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